


Make the Yuletide Gay

by Jmeelee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Sterek, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Christmas Presents, Dildos, Gift Exchange, Gratuitous use of Christmas sayings, Hale-McCall Pack, M/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21712477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: Stiles figures out the perfect present to get Scott for the pack Secret Santa gift exchange.  Too bad Derek accidentally opens it.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 33
Kudos: 299
Collections: 12 Days of Sterek





	Make the Yuletide Gay

Surprising absolutely everyone, Boyd comes up with the idea of a Secret Santa gift exchange.

“What?” he addresses the sea of stunned faces staring back at him from the living room of Derek’s loft. “You’re all so damn cranky all the time. I thought this would cheer us up.” More confused glances. “Don’t tell me white people don’t do Secret Santa.”

Scott looks mildly affronted at being called ‘white.’

Derek clears his throat. “Our family was so big—cousins, aunts, uncles–we couldn’t afford to buy for everyone. So, yeah, we did Secret Santa every year.” His eyebrows are angrier than anyone has a right to be when discussing Christmas gifts, the line of his handsomely stubbled jaw so tight it could snap any second. Muscled arms band across his chest, shoulders high and squared. He looks like he’s heading into battle, ready to beat the shit out of Kris Kringle for daring to slide his fat ass down the loft’s non-existent chimney. Looking at Derek right now is like staring at the gleaming light of a Christmas tree star; if Stiles stares too long, his eyes will start watering. 

“That’s a good idea, Boyd. We should do it.” The juxtaposition of Derek’s soft voice as it slips from a mouth encompassed by hard grooves of anger throws Stiles off balance, and his fingers grip the edges of his rusted metal folding chair. Screw Secret Santa; everyone should pool their money and buy some furniture for this apartment. Stiles’ eyes flit from Erica to Allison, Lydia, Jackson, Peter, Issac, and Scott. They, too, avoid looking directly at Derek. 

“Great,” Boyd says, sounding anything but. “It’s decided. Someone go get me a hat.”

Turns out, Derek Hale doesn’t own a single hat. What a weirdo. 

The pack settles on using a stainless steel mixing bowl from the kitchen instead. Does Derek _bake_? Stiles’ mind is blown. Who owns a mixing bowl but not a snapback? Geez. Unbidden, his duplicitous brain conjures a vision of Derek standing at the scratched laminate countertop, expertly wielding a rubber spatula, a smear of cookie dough on his cheek. Stiles could walk up beside Derek, reach out a thumb and gently rub off the sweet batter, bring that thumb up to his own mouth and–

Scott sniffs. “Are you getting turned on by the holiday spirit?” Scott is an asshole. Stiles doesn’t know why he’s friends with him.

Erica digs through the lone plastic tote Derek still hasn’t unpacked, leaving haphazard piles of faded henleys and too-tight dark jeans on the floor, ignoring Derek’s growls of “clean up that mess.” She unearths two stubby pencils, and a ream of printer paper for a computer Derek doesn’t own, ripping a single sheet into ten jagged slips. “Write your name down,” she directs them, dropping her scrap into the bowl. 

They pass around the two pencils. The one Stiles gets is missing an eraser, the crimped ferrule mangled like a dog’s chew toy. Was this pencil in Derek’s _mouth_? Were Derek’s teeth human or wolf at the time? Stiles rubs a thumb back and forth over the tiny indents, imagining–

Okay, time to pass the pencil. Scott’s side-eyeing him hardcore.

Peter tosses his name into the silver dish last, unfolding from his shadowy seat on the spiral staircase with a mean smirk, like a spoiled house cat who’ll slice the hand of anyone who dares to pet it. Stiles feels bad for Peter’s giftee. Well, truth be told, Stiles would feel bad if it were _him_. He’d probably laugh at anyone else when Peter inevitably hands the poor sucker a fresh deer heart or a regifted blender. 

One by one, the bowl travels around the group again, with every pack member choosing their recipient. Stiles reaches in, shifting through the notes, and snags one slip, handing the bowl to Issac. Finally, it comes back around to Peter, and they all cup the papers in their palms, unfolding them discreetly. 

“Did anyone get their own name?” Boyd checks. They shake their heads, but Stiles gives Jackson the stink eye. He wouldn’t put it past Jackson to simply buy himself a brand new cellphone or a second sports car and call it a day. 

Stiles unfolds his own paper, finding Scott’s sloppily scribbled signature. _Yes_! This will be so easy, and since Stiles is the world’s greatest best friend, he was going to get Scott a gift anyway. Now he can kill two turtle doves with one partridge in a pear tree. Stiles barely resists the urge to rub his hands together like a villainous Ebenezer Scrooge. 

“I hear Stiles is pleased with his beneficiary,” Peter smugly announces.

“Mind your own business, asshole!” Stiles sing-songs with faux sweetness. “Just because your heart is cold and dead doesn’t mean you should go around listening to other people’s.

Peter flashes his teeth. 

“As much as I hate to admit it,” Isaac sighs, “Peter brings up a good point. Part of the fun is guessing who gave you the gift, and we’ll all be able to tell who the gifts are from right away. We’ll be able to smell each other on them.”

Derek perks up like a weary teacher when a student has inadvertently given them a segue into the entire point of their lesson. “We can use this as an opportunity to gain more control over our senses, to inhibit our own scents.” Derek ignores the moans of displeasure. “It’s a valuable skill for a werewolf to have. Others won’t be able to track us.”

“That’s all well and good, but what about us humans?” Lydia asks.

“Deaton probably has something,” Scott supplies. “Stiles and I will go ask him tomorrow.”

++++++++++

“Let me get this straight.” Stiles doesn’t even snigger at the phrase. He is a pinnacle of maturity and deserves all the eggnog. “You want me to deplete my stores of cudweed so you can play Elf and hide Christmas presents?” Deaton deadpans.

“No.” Stiles desperately tries to keep his eyes from watching the way the strand of holiday lights hanging over the reception desk paints Deaton’s bald head a festive red and green. “I want you to deplete your stores of cudweed so Lydia and I can fool our Secret Santa recipients. No hiding necessary. The presents will be right there, under Derek’s hideous artificial tree.”

The veterinarian raises his eyebrows.

“Please, Dr. Deaton,” Scott says, all earnestly batted eyelashes and aw-shucks voice. “Our packs are trying really hard to work together, and Derek’s teaching us to mask our scents. It would mean a lot to me if we were all on a level playing field.”

Deaton glances at Scott, face softening fondly. “Fine. I was due for another trip to South America anyway.” He turns to the wall-mounted cabinets, pulling down a mason jar filled with green and white petals, and two bottles, one white and one brown. 

He shakes the mason in front of Stiles’ face and thrusts it into one hand. “Steep the cudweed and drink it as a tea at least three days before you go shopping for a gift. Twelve ounces should suffice.” He presses the white bottle into Stiles’ other hand. “And before you wrap the presents, boil this distilled water–” Deaton shoves the third bottle at Stiles, who fumbles everything, barely avoiding dropping the contents to the tile floor– “and mix it with peroxide and baking soda. Soak your hands in the mixture for ten minutes before you wrap anything.” 

“Great!” Stiles says. “Cudweed, distilled water, and peroxide. Where should I get the baking soda?”

Deaton speaks very slowly. “Try the supermarket, Stiles.”

  
  


++++++++++

“What do you buy for a dude who owns everything, literally?” Scott bemoans. They’ve been at it for hours, trudging through the galleria, Scott’s holiday spirit growing heavier than a fruit cake with each store they exit emptyhanded. 

“I don’t know, buddy,” Stiles consoles, mindlessly picking up a frosted pink bottle of perfume with a fancy, old-fashioned atomizer. “Something pretentious like... cufflinks? Rich people wear cufflinks, right? Wait! How about a bidet? Very European. Can you adjust the water pressure to those things? Seems like something Jackson would enjoy, a water enema up his a--”

“I never should have said yes to this stupid tradition,” Scott laments. “Now I have to buy for someone I can barely stand, _and_ my girlfriend. This is the worst.”

Stiles laughs. “Hold up, Mr. Grinch. At least Allison’s _easy_. You guys have been dating for four years. You must know what you’re getting for her.”

Scott grumbles something unintelligible. “Use your big boy words, Scotty,” Stiles replies patiently. “Some of us have human ears.”

A put-upon huff, then Scott whispers in a voice so low Stiles barely detects the words, “She said all she wanted this year was for us to try some new stuff in the bedroom.”

Stiles accidentally squeezes the atomizer, and a noxious cloud of fragrance chokes them both. “What could possibly be left to try after four years?” Stiles wheezes, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes.

Leave it to Scott to be vanilla in bed. If Stiles had super strength, a rocking body, and someone willing to jump into the sack with him at a moment’s notice, there would be no sexual stone left unturned. And if Stiles were dating a werewolf--hypothetically of course--he’d be making a list, checking it twice, doing some stuff that was naughty and--

“What the heck, Stiles? You better not be thinking about Allison and me.” 

He’s bodily dragged toward the jewelry counter, eyes still tearing. “I want those,” Scott growls at the suit-clad sales lady wearing jingle bell earrings, and stabs a finger on the glass case, right over a pair of onyx and gold cufflinks. She boxes them up, gift bag bursting with silver tissue paper, and rings Scott out as fast as she can. Stiles imagines, with his red-rimmed, blood-shot eyes and half a boner, and Scott’s grimy wad of singles, they look like druggies or male strippers, respectively. 

They’re back in Stiles’ Jeep, heater on full blast, when Scott says simply, “Butt stuff,” and Stiles’ ADHD supplies him with a plethora of colorful reasons for that pithy statement before his brain connects the dots. 

_Wait_. “Butt stuff for Allison, or butt stuff for you?” Stiles inquires, voice deceptively neutral.

Scott sighs in defeat. “Me.” Oh, holy night. Stiles is as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning. He’ll keep the new _Need for Speed_ video game he purchased two weeks ago, and buy Scott a dildo instead! Man, he is such a good friend, helping a brother spice things up in the bedroom with his lady. Goodwill toward man, and all that jazz. 

God bless the internet and two-day shipping.

+++++

Derek’s tree turns out to be real and charmingly Charlie Brown-esque. “I chopped it down in the preserve,” he tells Stiles.

“Like… with an ax?” Stiles asks.

The question earns him a signature Derek Hale arched brow. “Yeaaaaah. What else would I use?”

_Your bare hands_ , Stiles thinks but wisely doesn’t say aloud. _You’re rippling muscles, sweaty chest covered in lumberjack plaid, massive thighs braced and-_

Scott shoves a snowball cookie into Stiles’ slack-jawed mouth. “Thought this might help you sop up some of the drool.” Scott is the worst. Stiles regrets writing the helpful ‘do not open in front of the pack’ tag on his gift. 

After his mom passed away, the Sheriff always brought Stiles along to the station’s annual festivities, but Claudia took the magic of the season with her when she went. So as the night wears on, Stiles is shocked to find himself having _fun_. It’s one of the best holiday gatherings Stiles has attended in years. Holiday classics ooze from a miniature smart speaker, and the tree smells sharp and refreshing. Stiles’ ears ring with the raucous laughter of his friends, and the spiked punch slides sweetly over his tongue. 

“I want to open my gift now,” Lydia says after appetizers are polished off.

“Me too!” Erica cries. She frowns at her empty drink. “But first, I need more punch.” 

Stiles swipes her dollar-store plastic reindeer mug. “I’ll get both of us a refill, and be right out.” He heads into the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door and ladling out some fruity, bright red concoction into their cups. Cranberries and orange slices float on top. He plops in a few ice cubes for good measure. Stiles grabs Erica’s mug in one hand and raises his own drink to his lips as he turns back toward the room. 

He doesn’t need Rudolph’s red nose to see the unmitigated disaster unfolding in front of him.

Last week when Stiles and Lydia got together to douse themselves in Deaton’s scent-masking concoction and wrap their respective gifts, they’d both used the same roll of metallic silver paper covered in red and white peppermint candies. Stiles swore it made total sense at the time; save some money by wrapping both gifts in a fresh roll that hadn’t been laying around either of their houses for three-hundred sixty-four days, soaking in their scents. 

“You’re in charge of bringing them to the party,” Lydia enjoined, placing both boxes into the back of his Jeep, where Stiles promptly forgot about them. They’d rolled around for a few days, gift tags coming loose. Both boxes were rectangular in shape, but Lydia’s was slightly larger, and Stiles never in his wildest dreams thought he’d mixed them up when he refastened the name tags in the dim street light outside Derek’s apartment.

But that is precisely what must have happened because Scott is holding up a sixty-four-ounce wide-mouth hydro flask in cobalt blue, proclaiming, “Wow! I’ve always wanted one of these, but they’re so expensive!” 

Erica sashays up to Stiles in a new pair of red high heels and nabs her mug. “Come on, slowpoke,” she teases. “You’re the last to open your present!” 

Who knew werewolves could rip through wrapping faster than a seven-year-old on a sugar high? Boyd admires his nano-steel hockey stick, and Jackson fastens his new cufflinks to his burgundy dress shirt. Isaac wraps a soft-looking Burberry scarf around his neck, and Allison inspects all the drawers in her new jewelry box. Peter sniffs a bottle of cologne, and Lydia clutches a lavender angora sweater to her chest, wide hazel eyes locked on Scott and his mistaken merch.

And then there’s Derek, who’s moved to the outskirts of the group to peel away the packaging of his gift, just as the mysterious tag instructed. Stiles watches in holly jolly horror as Derek takes in the nondescript brown cardboard, jams two fingers into the seam, and slides it open. 

‘Tis the season to be mortified. 

“Okay!” Boyd calls out, pulling Stiles’ attention away from Derek. “Give us your best guess to who your secret Santa is!”

“Only Jackson could afford Louboutin’s,” Erica says, clicking her heels together like a sexy Dorothy. 

“Yup,” Jackson answers with smug pride. “And someone with taste picked out these cufflinks, so I’m thinking… Allison?”

Allison giggles. “Wrong! This jewelry box was made in France, so I’m going to guess Isaac is my Santa.”

Isaac blushes, becomingly. “Yeah, I hope you like it. I’m guessing my scarf came from Lydia?”

“Mmm, no,” Lydia says, “but I am classy, so that’s a solid hypothesis.” She brings the sweater up to her cheek. The soft shade of purple perfectly compliments her strawberry blonde locks. “You didn’t hunt the rabbits used to make this, did you, Peter?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, Miss Martin.” Peter’s nostrils flare. “ And this cheap cologne could have been purchased by any of you.”

“It was me,” Boyd replies. “Allison, you got me the new stick. I only know because I heard you ask Erica which ones I preferred to use after I became a werewolf.”

“Cheater,” Allison grins. “Scott, who is yours from?”

“Huh. Stiles?”

“Not exactly, buddy.” Stiles anxiously tears the wrapping on his own gift into a thousand tiny shreds, falling like snow from his fingertips into the loft floor and revealing a beautiful vintage chess set. “I think yours is from Lydia. This must be from Derek. Thanks, it’s amazing. And thoughtful. And I hope you like…” For a terrible split-second, every word except for dildo flees from Stiles’ mind. He clears his throat and tries to calm his heart. “Your ah, new running shoes?”

Derek shakes the box, menacingly. “Thanks, Stiles. I’m looking forward to getting in a good workout.”

Stiles chokes on his punch.

++++++++++

Derek’s quiet as a mouse for the rest of the party and Stiles bides his time until the pack clears out to make his apologies.

“Please don’t kill me.” Okay, maybe it’s more like groveling. “I _so_ did not mean to give you a vibrator!”

Something flickers over Derek’s features. “Oh… Yeah, of course, it wasn’t meant for me.” 

Derek starts wandering around the apartment, picking up used plates, half-empty cups, and crumpled gift-wrap. He won’t look Stiles in the face. 

Stiles eyes the tight line of Derek’s spine, the rigid way he gathers up the mess and shoves it into a garbage bag. A thrill of hope kindles in his gut. 

“Did you think I’d gotten it specifically for you?”

Derek shrugs, still avoiding his gaze. “At first, I figured it was probably a joke about me being a tight ass.”

“And after that?”

He does look at Stiles then and _boom_ , the hope ignites into a full blaze. 

“You know, just because it was originally intended for Scott, doesn’t mean it didn’t end up in the right person’s hands.” Stiles walks up to Derek, pulls the garbage bag away, setting it on the floor. “And for the record, if I’d been lucky enough to be your Secret Santa, I would have gotten you something more meaningful, more… romantic.” 

Derek is blushing. It’s a Christmas miracle. “I have to ask. Why did you buy your best friend a sex toy? And one so…” Derek picks up the box, eyes the extensive list of features. “Elaborate?” 

Stiles pulls the dildo out of the box, flicking it on, filling the room with a low buzz. Yeah, he preloaded the batteries, because he’s a true bro. “Because every time a dude has a prostate orgasm, an angel gets its wings?”

Derek fights a smile. “I’m pretty sure that’s _not_ how the saying goes.”

“Come,” Stiles says, pulling Derek toward the spiral staircase. “Let me adore you.”

++++++++++

“Whoa,” Stiles ineloquently gasps. “I think we just gave new meaning to the phrase, _make the yuletide gay._ ”

“Stiles,” Derek mumbles, mouth half-buried in the pillow he bit through. Wayward feathers poke through the punctures. “Your ability to ruin the afterglow is startlingly impressive. Now please, shut up, or I’ll have to make you.” 

“Sounds like a New Year’s resolution to me,” Stiles grins.

“Might as well get started now.” Derek’s arm whips out, reflexes faster than anyone should be post-orgasm, wrapping around Stiles like he’s the best gift under the tree. 

That night, sated and exhausted, they sleep in heavenly peace. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This fic was made better by my wonderful friend, Dee. Thank you for the beta read. 
> 
> Happy Holidays, everyone!


End file.
